Twixt Can and Can't
by meira16
Summary: Some years after the war, a research witch sets out to tell the stories of those who are neither Muggle nor magical: the Squibs.
1. Questions

**Twixt Can and Can't**

Scritch-scratch. A pen works its way across a scrap of parchment in the small study.

People say that you can't know much about a person just by looking at them. On the whole, that isn't true. The stories of lives are written in faces and clothes and possessions; you might just not be very good at reading. In any case, let's try and see what we get.

The user of the pen is a woman. If you are good at this sort of thing, which I am not, you might be able to guess that she is between twenty-five and thirty years of age, although her large hazel eyes and slight build could trick you into underestimating. The worn wand in her belt reveals that she is a witch. All this is already quite a lot to know about a person.

But not enough. Let's look around her office to see if we can find more.

Now things start to get interesting. The unmoving family photographs on the desk suggest that she is Muggle-born. The letters on her desk are addressed to Janine Whemper. It's as we move on to the walls that our attention is excited.

One wall holds a couple of framed certificates. One of them sports flashing silver stars and declares Janine Whemper to be a graduate of the Icarus Institute of Wizarding Research. The next more sombrely congratulates her on finishing her medical degree at Cambridge.

The opposite wall holds a bookshelf, which contains not even one book that cannot be found in the Muggle world. The books have titles like _The Descent of Man_ and _Dominance in Genetics_. All in all, it's enough to make us check again that we really did see the wand and that we have not actually stumbled into some Muggle doctor's office.

No, Janine Whemper is a witch, a research witch to be precise. You've been very observant, but you can stop now; I'll tell you about her.

x

Janine Whemper is indeed a Muggle-born witch. But she is a rather unique one. To explain, let's go back to her eleventh birthday…

Janine was awoken on her birthday by her father. It was a bright, crisp March day and she was to get up immediately, as all of her siblings were coming for lunch. She was the only one who still lived at home, so this was a great treat for her.

Her mother had died soon after her birth, killed by a rogue drunk driver. Janine had lived a very happy life with her father and siblings in their comfortable London home so far. The older children were already in the early stages of success of medicine, law, accounting and engineering, variously; it was that sort of family.

The day passed like most Whemper family meals. Dr Whemper was a great believer in cultivating curiosity and intelligence as a way of life, and so the food was accompanied by a lively debate on various current affairs.

It was after Eric and Victoria and Olivia and James, with various spouses and children, had left, and Janine was lazing in front of the fireplace reading a book, that a sharp knock was heard on the door. Muttering good-naturedly about the lateness of the hour, her father opened the door to reveal a sharp-looking woman in a noticeably ill-fitting tartan suit.

"Good evening, Dr Whemper. My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall. May I come in?"

Dr Whemper hesitated. He had never met this woman before in his life, but she was clearly an academic, which engendered his highest respect.

"With regard to what, Professor?"

"I would like to offer young Miss Whemper a place in my school, and I wish to talk to you about it." At that, she was immediately ushered in.

Things had changed quite a lot in the three years that Professor McGonagall had been heading up Hogwarts, and one of the first things she had dispensed with was the acceptance letter to Muggle-borns. They were now told individually, with full explanations.

"What is it, Father?"

"This lady would like to invite you to join her school, my girl."

"But I'm to go to Maynard's, surely?"

"Now, Jeanie, no decision is fixed. After all, the Professor has made the effort to come to see us, so it may very well be an excellent opportunity."

Janine finally came out of her cloud and looked up at the imposing visitor.

"Good evening, miss. Nice to meet you."

"Good evening, Janine. And it's Professor, actually. Professor McGonagall."

"Wizard." The girl grinned.

"Absolutely correct, actually." The woman's twisted lips curved into a very Scottish smile. "You see, Janine, you are a witch. You can do magic."

"Magic? Be serious, Professor, no such thing."

Janine's father had still not said anything. An upper-class, well-educated child was expected at least to attempt to hold her own with adults; how else would she learn? And late-born Janine was in any case quite experienced at conversing with her elders.

But now Dr Whemper felt it necessary to interrupt. This was getting absurd.

"Excuse me, Professor, but would you care to elaborate on what you mean by magic?"

"Certainly." In a blink, she had conjured with her wand a dazzling display of green and purple stars, which flashed through the living room and hung themselves on the walls. Janine reached out to touch one and her hand sparked a little.

"Father, how _did_ she do that?"

"No idea. What's the trick, madam?"

"There is no trick. It is magic. Magic like Janine will learn to do."

A lengthy explanation of accidental magic followed, and Dr Whemper nodded as if this explained a lot.

"You'll excuse me if I ask you to display another example? This is all rather unlikely."

"Of course." Before their eyes, the telephone across the room transformed slowly into a large white rat. The child's eyes widened even more.

"Rather unhygienic, madam. Will it be clean when you change it back?"

At this calm reaction, the jaws of both Janine and the Professor dropped.

"Father, you _knew_ magic was real? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Calm down, Jeanie. I had no idea that magic existed until just now. But it certainly seems to be the rational explanation now." He turned to face the surprised teacher.

"Forgive me, sir. Muggles are usually more … resistant to accepting the existence of magic."

"Muggle?"

"Those without the magical aptitude."

"Right. So you're saying she can do this stuff?"

"She will learn that and more at Hogwarts. She has substantial magical talent to be developed. Our term begins on the first of September…"

"Not so fast, madam. Tell me about your curriculum."

"Excuse me?"

"I want to see what she would be learning if she went to your school. Surely you have a lesson plan?"

Dr Whemper had the definite privilege of being the first person to leave Professor McGonagall speechless in a very long time.

"A lesson plan?"

"Well, of course. Don't tell me you came here recruiting without that sort of stuff. A course outline, which A-levels you offer, where your students go on to study. Come on." The doctor was now very clearly impatient.

"I am not sure you understand, Dr Whemper. Janine is to be a witch. She will write OWLs and NEWTs, not A-levels. She doesn't need any of that Muggle stuff anymore."

"Maths? Science?"

"I'm not quite sure what those are, doctor."

"Are you serious? So what do you teach?"

"Transfiguration – that's transforming things, like what I did with your phone." The unfortunate professor was now quite flustered. "Charms – the star thing was a charm, but it is a very wide subject and includes household spells as well. Potions, Astronomy, Defense against the Dark Arts …"

"What is that?"

"Defensive spells – protection against threatening situations. There is also Herbology, which is care of magical plants, and History of Magic. That's about all for first year, but from their third year on there are more choices…"

"Any sports? Physical activity?

"We have flying lessons for a few weeks in first year, and there are a few broom sports, but that's about it."

"It sounds wonderful, Father. Loads of fun."

"It sounds highly improbable and illegitimate, Janine. Really, what is she to learn that is of any use?"

"It's all very useful."

"Really? Turning a phone into a rat? That defensive thing sounds OK, and I suppose Potions and Herbs appear to be worthwhile, but the rest sounds like rather a waste of time."

"A waste of time?" Professor McGonagall's nostrils flared, but the doctor was used to angry people.

"You must understand, Professor. I'm not ungrateful. I'm sure Janine would enjoy being at your school – it sounds amazing. But she's been accepted to one of the most prestigious schools in the country. She's always wanted to be a doctor. I can't allow her to spend her most important years studying the curriculum you are suggesting. It's just not enough for a girl of Janine's talents."

Frankly, this was a new one for the professor. She had come across people who had refused to believe in magic and people who regarded it as weird and unnatural. But she had never met someone who rather liked the idea but just thought it was not good enough.

"Dr Whemper, Janine _does_ need this. Without training, her magic will mature unchecked and become dangerous to her and others. This is not something she can ignore."

"Well, can she have private magical tutoring? Enough to keep it in control?"

"Unfortunately, the magical world is recovering from extensive tragedies and educators are in short supply. I cannot provide the staff and I doubt anyone else in England can do so either."

"I see."

"Perhaps you need some time to think this over? May I return tomorrow?"

"Yes, good idea. I'm sorry about this, Professor, but I just don't feel right about it."

Once the elderly witch had departed, Dr Whemper turned to his daughter, who was looking rather apprehensive. "So, what do you think? Do you want to go?"

"It sounds super. Real magic." At this, the excitement dropped out of the girl's voice. "But you don't want me to go."

"Jeanie, it's not that. It sounds quite extraordinary. But you've always enjoyed your studies. If you go to this place, you'll never be a doctor. You heard her; she's never even heard of mathematics. I just don't feel comfortable allowing you to give up everything like that."

The poor man sunk his head into his hand, and immediately raised it. "Unless…" And with that one word the uniqueness of his daughter was decided definitively.

x

When Professor McGonagall returned twenty-four hours later, she found a much happier household. "Have you made your decision?"

"Indeed. I have decided to accept your offer conditionally."

"Oh?" The Highlands eyebrow rose imperiously.

"It is clear that the opportunity to attend your school is an excellent one and it would be injudicious of Janine to turn it down. But neither can I allow her to give up on her 'Muggle' education."

"We talked about this. I cannot provide private tuition for your daughter."

"True. But I can provide regular tuition."

"Please explain."

"Janine will attend lessons in maths, science and whatever else she wishes to study over the weekend and in the holidays. She will write her examinations when the time comes. I assume this can be arranged."

"We can't have Muggles at Hogwarts."

"Wouldn't you be able for her to arrange to leave the campus? I assume magical travel is possible."

Professor McGonagall looked highly doubtful. "Well, yes, I suppose. But it would have to be in Scotland. I can't take the risk that she be spotted in two countries every week. In any case, school rules say that she cannot return home over the weekends unless for a family occasion."

"Agreed. I can certainly arrange tuition in Scotland. Do we have a deal?"

"Not yet." She turned to Janine. "This will be very difficult. Hogwarts is a lot of work, and you will be carrying a double load. You will not have much free time. Are you sure this is what you want?"

To her surprise, the child's eyes were clear and older than her age. "Yes, I'm sure."

"Why?"

"You must forgive me, Professor, but I don't know you and I don't know much about magic. But I do know Father and my brothers and sisters, and I've wanted to be like them since before I can remember and I don't think I want to give up on that yet. I like school and I want to continue. There's nothing wrong with working hard."

"That's right, Jeanie. But you're also to have fun. Do students generally have a good time at your school, Professor?"

"Oh, yes. We have feasts and ghosts and many wonderful things. I don't know of anyone who doesn't love Hogwarts." The Professor was bemused; she had never had to explain to anyone that they would have a good time at Hogwarts.

"Well, then I suppose it is settled. What do I need to do now?"

And thus finally Professor McGonagall was able to do what she had originally intended, which was to hand over the book list and directions to Diagon Alley and the hidden platform and to return to the school to manage whatever chaos was currently surfacing.

Diagon Alley proved to be an endless fascination for the inquisitive pair. Dr Whemper was particularly engrossed by the selection of Janine's wand (ash with dragon heartstring, twelve and three-eighth inches) and for the first time Mr Ollivander found someone who would listen as long as he would talk, or at least until the next customer started shouting impatiently, or at least what would have been impatiently had he not been waiting unattended for the last forty minutes.

Finally, the preparations were complete. September found the Whempers at the station with two trunks; while this was not unusual for fashion-conscious Muggle-born girls who could not shrink their clothes, Janine's second trunk contained textbooks, pens and a new calculator, surely a first for a Hogwarts witch.

x

Every Saturday and Sunday, Janine was to take a Portkey to Edinburgh, where she studied under the instruction of Dr Kay, a soft-voiced Gael with dancing eyes and immense pride in his pupil. If he ever wondered, as well he should have, what Janine, who was charming but not dramatic in the least, was doing at a private seminary for the performing arts, he never asked, not once in the hundreds of weekends that he taught her.

It was not an easy school life for her at first. A casual spectator would have placed her in Ravenclaw without a second glance, but the Sorting Hat, anything but unobservant, got an overwhelming impression of unyielding determination and a special destiny, and she became a Slytherin.

A Muggle-born in Slytherin needed to be something special to flourish; prejudice dies more quickly in politics than in school life, and to the first years the scars on the stone walls of Hogwarts were barely a story, an ignorance that said far too much about the new attitude of the wizarding world. But a Muggle-born who still lived in the Muggle world for half her day, who refused to be at all embarrassed about her shameful background, who dared to talk about biology during Herbology and chemistry during potions was off the radar, a hideous anomaly to be squashed into non-existence.

But after a while the elite of the Snakes gave up. The girl was so entirely unaffected by their scorn. She spent her evenings curled up by the fireplace with a textbook, magical or otherwise, and rarely looked up to attend to her housemates' comments. She had no time for Quidditch games or lazing by the lake; when mocked, she had an off-putting way of staring at her tormentor with a quizzical look and answering with a discussion of whatever she was reading. So the bullies lost interest and only showed residual nastiness when usual entertainment was slow.

Perhaps the Sorting Hat knew what it was doing. In Ravenclaw, Janine's behaviour and pursuits would have considered quite acceptable and she might have been fairly popular. In time she might have been drawn out into other recreations and her particular brand of industriousness may have lost its charm. But deep in the dungeons, she was forced to cling ever harder to her books and fight for her dual identity, constantly reminded of its oddness by those who considered it a disgrace.

And so things went on. Some of the professors found her a little bemusing, but she excelled in her studies and was the particular darling of Professors Slughorn and Sprout. Two years and a half were to pass before this remarkable witch, so wrapped up in her world, met the man who would change things forever, although they had walked the same halls every day.

x

It was a day like any other, and Janine was taking a shortcut through a little-used corridor when she heard a swell of laughter coming from a room. Curious, she walked into a small classroom to see a pinched-looking man strung up from the ceiling in a pink and blue lattice of Drooble's Gum. He would most probably have been cursing if a strand of the web had not wrapped itself around his mouth, but his cheeks were still working furiously. A crowd of pranksters lounged against the walls, snickering. Gryffindors of course, she thought with some scorn.

The poor captive had apparently lost his wand, as he seemed unable to free himself. Janine wondered who he was; surely not even the Gryffindors would dare do this to a teacher. A few of them popped matching gum in their mouths and blew loud, mocking bubbles.

Janine sidled up to one of the young Pucks, a girl called Kelly McDonald who had sometimes been friendly to her. "Who is he?" she whispered.

"Oh, hello there. Didn't see you. What do you think, eh?"

"He's not a teacher, is he?"

Kelly snorted. "Not a chance. Look at him, filthy Squib. The only thing he could teach is wiping his nose."

She stared a little at Janine, as people tended to sometimes when confronted with her particular brand of distance from student life. "He's Filch, the caretaker. He cleans whatever is beneath a house-elf to clean, and rats to McGonagall about everything. Anyway, he lodged a petition to ban Drooble's, so we decided to … introduce him to its delights."

"So he can't do magic?" Janine had read about Squibs once or twice and her interest was piqued.

"Yeah. Freak." Kelly snickered as one of the older jokers manipulated the caretaker's hands into a rather embarrassing position.

"But then … isn't he like us?" Kelly was also Muggle-born, although her older sister was also a witch.

"Are you mad?" Kelly glowered at Janine with horror. "What do you mean?"

"Well, we're not like our parents; we're magical and they aren't. So he's the same but in reverse, right?"

"Really, Janine, you can't say things like that. Honestly, how dare you compare us? We've moved _up_ in the world; we've _improved_ on our parents' model. Muggle-born wizards are common; that's because it's _right_ that people develop magic, it's the way of the world. But how can a person lose magic? It's unnatural. I'm just grateful there are so few of them."

"Why are there so few Squibs? I've never met one before."

"My word, don't you listen to _anyone_ who isn't a teacher? I just said, because it's twisted and wrong, and nature obviously feels the same way."

At this point Kelly concluded her lecture and disappeared, her trouble-tuned ears having picked out the approach of the Headmistress. Her co-conspirators quickly followed suit, and Janine was left alone with the furious mannequin of a man. Her compassion aroused, she pulled out her wand and floated him down, but unfortunately lacked the presence of mind to escape.

She found herself immediately caught up by the ear and dragged to Professor McGonagall, who listened in some amazement to the accusation that Janine had tormented Filch. Curious as to what Janine had been doing at all outside the library, the Headmistress took the girl to her office for further questioning.

"I really didn't do it, Professor. I promise." The tears of unjust accusation, so unique to a child, swam through her eyes.

"But you were there, watching. What on earth were you thinking? Why would you participate in such a thing?"

"I passed by and saw it, and then I saw a girl and I asked her who he was, and she said he was a Squib and we were talking about it and then she ran away."

"Janine, we do not discuss Mr Filch's status. It is simply not something we talk about. He is possessed of a rare defect, and there is no need to enquire further."

"But…"

"Please drop the subject. Who was harassing Mr Filch?"

Janine remained silent.

"Janine, I know you were not involved. But Mr Filch is extremely upset and I need to do something."

All the Headmistress received was a quiet shrug.

"Well then, detention it is. You will be copying out the records in my office tomorrow night, unless you send a real culprit to replace you."

Janine nodded. "I will be here." She was dismissed in her usual daze.

But the truth was that Janine was enthralled by the response she had gotten from the usually open Professor. She had hardly been surprised by Kelly's prejudice; the girl was none too bright and rarely made the effort to think for herself. But the look of disgust that had twisted over Professor McGonagall's usually serene face had shocked her a lot; the aversion to the breed of Squib still ran deep. Obviously Squibs had not attained nearly the same acceptance as Muggle-borns, and she was not sure why.

What was so wrong with them? Clearly magic was nice to have, but it wasn't everything; she of all people knew that. Why were they so despised? What caused the magical ability to disappear from a family? And why was it so rare, when Hogwarts was teeming with students of Muggle birth?

At the time, it was nothing more than Janine's usual fascination with whatever curiosity came her way. As was her wont, she retired to the library to quench her interest, but it was only stoked by what she did not find. The whole topic of those born to magical parents but without the ability was assiduously avoided. Night after night she searched, but there was nothing to be learned, even after she charmed Professor Slughorn into giving her a Restricted pass.

Janine was now decidedly intrigued. Looking for more clues, she started reading literature on Muggle-born wizards. In that too, academic research was somewhat lacking. Most of what had been written was from the old days of bigotry, and the books written were more based on the underlying view of the author than of any real knowledge of the nature of Muggle-borns. Even more recent books, written by members of the Order of the Phoenix, were dogmatic and passionate, and had no real scholastic rigour. It appeared that wizarding academia, in general fairly thorough, regarded this whole area of study as a bit fishy and took some pains to ignore it at any level beyond the superficial.

It was deep in a corner of the dark Hogwarts library, at the age of thirteen, that Janine decided to what use she would put her rare combination of skills. She would study the heredity of wizardry, find out how and why magic is or is not passed on and unearth the mystery of the shame of those without the ability.


	2. Answers

Years have passed since Argus Filch was imprisoned in an intricate net of gum, and Janine has learned a lot since then. So much, in fact, that she is writing down her studies, which she hopes to publish someday. It is unclear if she will ever fulfil her dream; for obvious reasons she cannot publish in the Muggle world, and she has certain suspicions that the wizarding world has active interests in keeping such studies unseen. But for now she continues, pulled along by the true love for knowledge and its exposure that is the joy of academics everywhere.

Janine is not a full-time academic; she actually highly disapproves of people being allowed to study all day without exposure to the outside world, and looks upon most of the research wizards with some disdain. In any case, she is not yet making money from her research, and so she moonlights as a Muggle doctor, a geneticist actually. The delicious irony of this, a Muggle-born witch eradicating hereditary imperfections and diseases in others, is sadly lost on her magical friends, who have no idea what a geneticist even is.

But at night she is pure theory and logic, breaking down her findings into words and numbers and charts.

_It has long since been established that the ability to cause magic is a genetically inherited one,_ she writes. _It is not entirely clear how, in the absence of clear scientific research, such an assumption gained such wide acceptance, particularly in the face of the commonality of the Muggle-born wizard, but it has unmistakably been regarded as axiomatic for some time, as evidenced by the emphasis on blood purity in the magical community for centuries._

_In the past, it was believed that Muggle-borns acquired their magic by stealing it from wizards (and more commonly witches) that they executed. This theory discredited, the most common conjecture is that the magical gene is recessive and is able to lie dormant through many generations of Muggles until it resurfaces in what is then mistakenly believed to be the first witch or wizard in the line._

_The idea of the genetic ability to perform magic being recessive carries a certain weight of plausibility. It provides an elegant explanation for the seemingly random emergence of magic in the Muggle population. It also explains, albeit incompletely, why the wizarding population is so much smaller than the Muggle population, and why the pureblood families are so genetically unstable. Various other oddities of how wizarding life has evolved fit in well with this hypothesis._

_The question of why the magical gene evolved in a recessive form and not a dominant one, when instinctually one would assume it would be an evolutionary advantage, is not addressed in this paper, but merits further study and could shed considerable light onto the nature of magic itself._

_One element of wizarding society that is seemingly contradicted by the recessive hypothesis is the rarity of the occurrence of Squibs in the population. Statistically, the birth of a Squib should be a fairly common event; yet, over the last five hundred years, less than two Squib births were reported annually._

_The improbability of a recessive gene so consistently arising in the wizarding population, combined with the failure of the wizarding population to grow despite the regular influx of Muggle-borns, leads to two hypotheses: that the incidence of Squibs in the community is being artificially reduced by some means of population control, or that the existence of Squibs is not reported or in fact actively hidden from records._

_Either or both of the above options is likely, given the widespread animosity towards Squibs. In the aftermath of the Second Voldemort War, much effort went into promoting tolerance of and respect for wizards of impure lineage. Yet no similar overtures have been made towards the Squib populations; hostility towards them is found in every element of wizarding society._

Janine's dissertation goes on in this style for some time. As she writes, she feels a sense of completion, of coming full circle from a fascinating search for knowledge.

x

Once she is finished her first draft, Janine goes to visit her father and takes with her manuscript for him to peruse. Now past seventy, he is still the same vital man who so confused Professor McGonagall. He now lives in a retirement village; all his children visit him, but none so often as his youngest.

Neither of them quite realizes how remarkable their continued closeness is. As a rule, a distance springs up over time between Muggle-borns and their families. It is quite natural; after all, Muggle-borns spend so much time learning to fit in at Hogwarts that very little energy is left for remembering those they have left behind in the rather boring world, and in any case the Statute of Secrecy forbids them sharing so much that it becomes easier to share nothing at all. They feel a creeping resentment to their family for being a source of shame and mockery.

On the other hand, the Muggle relatives grow resentful and increasingly frustrated with the implicit assumption that being interested in cars is so much _shallower_ than being interested in racing brooms; that a life with spells is somehow intrinsically more meaningful; and they _hate_ the constant use of words they cannot understand. No harsh words are spoken on either side, no accusations made. It is a gradual shift over time, very subtle; but tea every Sunday becomes lunch every Christmas, and often finally nothing at all.

But in so many ways Janine is still very much eleven years old, and retains her tendency to chatter obliviously about whatever interests her at the moment. She has nary a thought of any Ministry restrictions as she tells her father of what is going on in her life. And her father listens with fascination undimmed, ungrudging and always happy to learn of the other world at second hand, his overwhelming pride obvious for anyone but his daughter to see.

He reads slowly with his ever-critical eye, alert to any possibilities of error or sloppy thinking. Finally, he looks up. His daughter, somewhat prideful, is loath to admit how much she needs her father's validation.

"You need some stories, Jeannie." This prompts a puzzled look from the witch.

"You're researching people, not genes. Who are the people you are writing about? What are they experiencing? Do they all get treated like your janitor?"

"That's not science, Father."

"True. But science never matters unless people decide that it does. Like this, your stuff will gather dust in some journal, or whatever your people publish." Janine's eyes sting with hurt at the possibility.

"Make people care, Jeannie. Capture people's hearts, and their minds will follow."

x

Most magical researchers, like most Muggle academics, are male. It is not politically correct to point this out, but it is undoubtedly true; women are not so good at entering the unaware daze that is the hallmark of the denizens of labs everywhere. But, as in any field, there are a few.

One of these is a heroine of Janine's. Dead when Janine was still a baby, she leaves a legacy of awe and slight bafflement.

Her name was Miranda Lovegood, and the most familiar description provided by her ex-colleagues is "frankly mental". She had been fearless and reckless to a fault, and had she been an iota less talented she would have dismissed from her position as a hazard to herself and to those around her. But, as it happens, she was quite brilliant, and pioneered various ideas that changed the magical world forever.

What Janine plans to use is one of Miranda's inventions. It is not actually approved for standard research, or in fact for use at all, but Janine did not spend seven years in the Snake Pit of Hogwarts for nothing. She knows that the method works; all she needs is permission to use it.

So her next stop is the home of Luna and Rolf Scamander. She met Luna some time previously, when the older woman innocently asked her if she was spearheading a Muggle invasion of the wizarding world through the evils of mathematics. As it happened, Janine's wide-eyed denial struck exactly the right chord in Luna, who was quite happy to have her brain picked regarding her mother. The two are still friends; both a little out of touch with reality, although in such different ways.

She knows Luna quite well by now, and makes sure to drop words like "conspiracy" and "exposure" into the conversation. Luna's eyes light up as if on command, and she happily hands over certain notes of Miranda's that will make Janine's life a lot easier, as well as a very special silver bowl.

Miranda was an expert in, among other things, residual magic and the echoes it left on the environment. She was able to see spells after they had been performed and various other after-effects.

In the notes now in Janine's possession, she explains that a wizard's memory leaves an imprint on his surroundings, faint but readable for one who know what they are looking for. The Pensieve is one she developed for reading such memories, designed to amplify the faded threads to full strength.

It is using this device that Janine plans to find the stories, buried deep in the walls of wizarding homes, both ancient and modern. Lost in the treacherous gap between worlds, some very special tales are about to be told.


	3. Disowned

The clock swings around to twelve o' clock. The day has come to an end. All eyes swivel accusingly to meet Marius Black, who is now eleven years and one day old, and quite definitely _not_ in possession of an admission letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Cygnus Black stares at his second son in tightly reined fury. It is not seemly for a patriarch of Wizard Britain's elite to display anger openly; but likewise it is highly unseemly for a scion of said elite to fail to produce enough magical talent to be accepted to Hogwarts. Frankly, he has not even considered the possibility of such ridiculousness. At the moment, his rational mind is struggling for supremacy over the mounting rage to start thinking of a solution, something that will erase the shame and aberration.

Behind Cygnus stands his shadow, firstborn Pollux. Seventeen years old, his straight back and drawn cheeks make him appear far older. There is no touch of innocence or naïveté in his pale, handsome face; he already carries the aristocratic arrogance that he will need as head of the house. He faithfully reflects his father's wrathful expression.

If you were to look closer, though, you would see that his seriousness is just the tiniest bit forced. Not through any weakness of his own, you understand; he knows well what is required of the descendants of Black and despises his brother for failing in this responsibility. Yet a part of him, buried deep where his father will not see it and be ashamed of his heir, is sad. He is not exactly sure what about; surely he will not miss such a creature, a blight on his family. But a hidden slice of his soul sheds forbidden, inexplicable tears.

Cassie, vain as her namesake, looks on with boredom. She regards the whole scene as an utter waste of time; if asked five years ago, she would have assured you that Marius was without magical ability, or indeed any potential whatsoever. Today is just a formality; she had long since given up on her brother as useless, and she studies her fingernails, not even feigning interest.

Violetta, who was once Marius's mother, is the first to touch the outcast. She awkwardly pats his shoulder. There is no real comfort to be given; she cannot tell him that everything will be alright, because it is decidedly _not_ so. But she allows herself to feel sadness that this is the case, to feel disappointment instead of anger. She is grateful that she will not be the one to decide his fate; she is free to mourn the loss of her son.

Little Dorry, youngest of all, does not know how to react, does not in fact really understand what is going on. She realizes that Marius has done something bad, but the current shocked silence is not typical of punishments in the House of Black and she is quite out of her depth.

It is only after her father solemnly announces that Marius will be dispatched to a Muggle orphanage the following day that she understands how serious this is. And yet it makes no sense; what could Marius possibly have done that was so bad; that could make him not _be_ anymore, as her father states is the case. She runs to her brother, hugs his legs desperately, searches in vain for the new-found defect in his beloved face. She sobs, and is shrugged off by Marius, who is in the state of despair in which no show of love is welcome. She has to be dragged away from him when he is firmly shown out of the house the next day.

x

The Black family's infamy for disowning errant family members is somewhat undeserved. Not in the sense that they never do it; various burns on the wall are quite fair in their testimony. But it is always a last resort; various alternate measures of "persuasion" are first employed, which fit in rather better with the accounts of violence and mental instability that is the clan's hallmark.

But no such efforts are taken with young Marius, no second chances given. The stain on him is not one of choice, but one of blood, the darkest tarnish in the eyes of those who so firmly believe that they represent the light of all wizardry.

The experience of having a family situation which cannot be solved by a variety of painful and illegal curses is therefore a somewhat new one, and Cygnus finds himself incapacitated by rage and shock. It is Cassie, cold and passionless, who awakes from her self-absorbed trance to make plans for the creature's future.

Marius is given a bus ticket and the name of an orphanage in Manchester; he will not taint his family by sharing their ancestral city. Dorry is beaten daily for crying for him. Pollux says nothing, but develops a habit of staring wistfully at the burn on the tapestry when nobody is looking. Cassie remains unaffected; this lack of violent emotion is, ironically, more foreign to her family than the absence of magical talent. Unspoken words haunt the air.

x

Marius takes his mandated route with all the resolve and strength that have been drilled into him since infancy. The matron at the orphanage is horrified at the arrival of such an old child; she insists on embarking on a search for his parents, which he knows to be futile. Of course, no record of Marius Black exists, and so he settles down to a new life.

He barely misses his parents, who rarely spent much time with him. He feels guilty for not missing Dorea, and not at all so for being quite relieved to be done with Cassiopeia's company. The only one he really longs to see, just once more, is his older brother, and hopes that Pollux grieves for him too, if only a little.

Marius becomes Mark in time, and goes on to attend school and university and whatever else is offered by the orphanage. He is known for occasional random violence towards other children, but that calms down after a while. He is bright and alert, although a little creepy in his intensity.

When Mark gets older, he surprises his friends by being quite uninterested in dating. After all, he is attractive and intelligent; girls chase him by the hoards. One friend tentatively asks if he is "otherwise" and receives a black eye for his curiosity.

After a _lot_ of alcohol, Mark reveals that he has no plans to marry, ever. A suggestion that he need not actually wed the girls he beds is met by the aristocratic glare that attracts said girls. After even more alcohol, he explains that he does not wish to have children, that he fears the transmission of a disease he carries. For a brief moment the mask slips, and this most suave and confident of boys reveals his self-loathing to his friends. But it is a university dormitory; his confessions are swept away the next morning with the empty bottles.

Vows of celibacy are easier made than kept, and Mark's resolve is tried anew on an ongoing basis. But each time he is tempted, he is grounded again by the fear of a magical child. Of having to return to that world. Of forcing his beloved brother to explain what happened ten years ago, in front of the magical society of which he is the most prominent member.

No physical desire can be worth the shame. Shame on himself for being deficient. Shame on his brother, who will face awkward questions from liberal politicians who do not deserve to sit in his presence. Shame on his child, who will walk the halls of Hogwarts known as one who sullied the purest of lines.

He is tormented by his self-aversion and confusion. The chaos of the war with Germany comes almost as a relief. The leaking of his blood from the bullet wound, his tarnished, unnatural blood, is cathartic; it mingles with the dark earth which is its equal. As consciousness fades, he imagines his family's blood, flowing golden through Black veins, like the golden threads that link them on the tapestry.

x

When Pollux hears of Mark Black's death in France through channels he will not admit, he purses his lips for a moment and makes a note of the date in his diary. Then he returns to the Ministry, never looking at the accusing hole on the wall a few inches from his own name. Perhaps he has learned callousness over time, or perhaps he knows he is forgiven.


	4. Overlooked

The conclusion of the last day of Kylie Nichol's eleventh year is not marked by anything in particular. Kylie's parents have noted her inability to exhibit any accidental magic and have not really expected an owl to swoop in to deliver a letter confirming her giftedness.

Kylie's mundaneness is not wholly unexpected. The Nichol's are both Muggle-born and hold no illusions of blood purity. They live in a time when their inferiority is a basic assumption of life; they are vassals to the ancient House of McMillan and lead the simple life to which their descent entitles them.

To be honest, Kylie's incompetence rarely comes up as an issue. The Nichols are caught up in a battle of survival that occupies most of their attention. To be sure, they are happy when Rita and Zachary are accepted to Hogwarts and hope they will do well. Mrs Nichols remarks that she hopes Rita will learn some useful household spells, and her husband instructs Zachary to pay attention in Herbology, as Lord McMillan wants the gardens to be restored. They pat little Tobey on the head when he levitates his bottle, but do not actively push him to repeat this feat.

It is not that they don't want their children to succeed. They are kind, loving parents; devoted to their children's happiness. But they do not actually expect them to excel in the magical community; after all, they will have so few chances to do so and so many obstacles to overcome. The Nichols do not want to raise false hopes. The McMillans are kind masters, but there are plenty Muggle-borns to replace them if they become uppity.

x

So Kylie remains at home without much comment, ignored unless she misbehaves, which her father's strong arm with a belt keeps down to a rarity. Her mounting jealousy and frustration passes unnoticed. No sensitivity is displayed, because nobody realizes how much it hurts.

Rita turns seventeen and starts doing all the housework by magic, quicker and neater than their mother can, and her impatience with her sister's slower methods increases. Zach receives top marks in several subjects, and Lord McMillan himself comes to the house to congratulate him. Tobey receives his acceptance letter. Baby Ruth turns her father's hair green.

All this while, Kylie silently does her chores and grinds her teeth and pretends not to mind when Zach pranks her with charmed devices that her magic-less eyes cannot see until they have trapped her, when Tobey pulls her hair and races away on his broom.

Without any gift of Divination, she knows exactly how her life will go. She will be formally employed by the McMillans when she is of age; it is the tradition of the old families to hire the less fortunate of their association, however useless they are. She will be a maid, relegated to such chores as Lady McMillan decides are not done well enough by magic. She will live a pathetic, lonely existence, with no hope of improvement.

Often, she wishes that her mind was as feeble as everyone believes it to be, that she was truly stupid and could not understand how lowly she is. She longs to put out her eyes, so that she does not have to watch Zach leave the estate to take up the junior position at the Ministry that he is offered, a superb accomplishment for one of polluted blood. She hates her ears for exposing her to Rita's sharp reprimands; her older sister is now head housekeeper.

x

I know how you want the story to end. You want Kylie to run away and find a handsome Muggle husband who knows nothing of wands or potions, or to get a glamorous job as a fashion designer. The more romantic (or stupid) of you might even imagine her ending her pointless life, her blood staining the ground tragically and not nearly as messily as would actually be the case outside of teenage novels.

But real life has no stars in its eyes, and so Kylie spends many more years on McMillan Estate, the rest of her life, in fact, an average life of happiness and irritability and cake and Mondays and all the other things experience by people who are _not_ tragic heroines. Her predictions are entirely correct.

But sometimes she wonders if it really matters. Tobey and Ruth have also stayed, their current lodgings within one hundred yards of the house they grew up in. Actually, when Kylie takes lunch in the kitchen, she eats with almost all the same people she played with as a child. Overwhelmingly, once Hogwarts was finished, her peers returned to the estate, secure in the expectation that they would have a job with the McMillans or one of their rich friends.

The use of magic also becomes less of a barrier as they grow up and the thrill of magical mischief fades. Times have changed since Kylie was a child; blood prejudice, once only an undertone and assumption of life, is on the rise as a political issue. The old families must take a stand, and do so by enforcing stronger rules and distinctions between the pure and the profane. It is now considered highly improper, gross bad taste of the chief order, to use magic in the presence of one of higher blood-ranking, to sully one's betters with one's ignoble talent; for the Nichol family and those of their acquaintance, this applies to practically everyone. This means no levitation while serving food to the family; no Banishing Charms to get rid of dirty nappies; wands are even banned in the kitchen in front of the half-blood chef. The servants become so used to avoiding magic in the house that they unconsciously use their hands at home as well; Ruth once confesses to Kylie that she can go for several days without using magic without even realizing it.

Kylie does not respond to this, but forever after smirks when she sees haughty Rita opening doors and wiping spills with her hands, her magical talent rendered useless by her lowly station in life.

She feels mean for taking comfort in the drabness of her life by watching the restraint to which her peers are subjected. She knows that she ought to wish things to be different, better for others as well as herself.

But how can she help herself? How can she not be relieved that all her fears of derision, of inadequacy, are so much lessened now that magic itself is forgotten? She, and those like her, have not missed out on so much; in the end, learning to polish silver properly was enough.

x

Years later, when Kylie's worn hands are found still and cold, nobody even remembers that she was once different; nobody thinks to mark her grave with the traditional symbol that would identify her remains as one without the magical ability. Young Lord McMillan remembers the next day, as he is sorting out her paperwork to send to the Ministry, that his childhood nanny was once handicapped, that she had not had the talent that he so rarely sees any of the servants use. He says nothing, though - what purpose would it serve? And the first seeds of doubt are planted in him as to the wisdom of the lines drawn between people, lines that have seemingly become more real than reality.


	5. Terminated

Narcissa Malfoy is afraid. But she does not show it. She picks her way along the grimy street with her head held high. This is the last place that she wants to be.

Actually, this is entirely untrue. Narcissa has had exposure to various and sundry truly awful places, and quite a number of them are worse than Linkwood Crescent. Today's trip might in fact be instrumental in avoiding contact with some of those worse places. But Narcissa, despite being possessed of far more positive traits than she has any genetic right to, is a hypocrite, always has been. She has always revelled in the imagined tragedy of her life.

She inches delicately along the sidewalk with the air of a surgeon removing a large tapeworm, recoiling from every speck of dirt. Finally, she reaches her destination, a door that is very carefully _not_ labelled.

Anyone's presence here is automatically criminal, and hers doubly so, caught as she is between two worlds, two sides.

The room inside is a gleaming white; it hurts the eyes. The toad-like man flashes her an insincere smile. He asks no names, no questions, merely points at her purse.

Narcissa removes a sack from her pocket and un-shrinks it. At its rightful size, it is more gold than anyone can carry.

"You understand the risks involved?"

She nods, forcing certainty into her eyes. The simple question is loaded with meaning. The spell she is paying the man to perform is highly dangerous to her own health. It is also banned by the Ministry with even more force than Avada Kedavra, and its very existence is considered to be a security threat of the highest priority. The very knowledge of the incantation carries a life sentence, and its execution is punishable by death.

Narcissa knows all of this, sneered throughout the explanation. Rookwood may be a spy, but he has gone native within the Ministry.

"You have your husband's permission for this?"

"I have no husband." Narcissa's mouth goes bitter at the lie. The man sees right through her, but couldn't really care less.

"Very well." He raises his wand, which is clearly not standard Ollivander's issue - he is famed throughout the wizard underground as the only one who can perform this spell capably. He mutters under his breath, and a shower of grey sparks fill the room.

"What does it mean?"

"The child you carry is non-magical."

"Are you sure?"

"Madam, nobody is more sure than me. This child has less magic than a common pebble."

Narcissa nods. Only nods. Now is not the time for reactions.

"Thank you."

"Tell nobody of today. I do not need your help procuring business."

She nods again, and promptly leaves. Continues walking until she gets home. Goes directly to bed, and pretends to be asleep when Lucius comes in.

x

The next day, Narcissa Malfoy makes an appointment at St Mungo's for termination of pregnancy. She refuses counselling, refuses to give a reason. This is not illegal, and by the time she arrives back at the manor the whole incident might never have happened.

It is only then, once it is all done, once her weakness will no longer matter, that she breaks down. She falls onto the bed, feeling the pain cut through her far worse than any torture her sister could administer, broken by the sense of loss.

She remains like this for some time, her wails heard only by the house-elf. Finally the tears run out, although the pain does not. But she feels strong enough to take stock of the situation.

She knows that she did right. The Malfoys are currently under double scrutiny. The Dark Lord is at the height of his power, and his loyal followers must show flawless bloodlines - an aberration like this could not be allowed to survive. And they would not be able to find out in time and deal with the child in the traditional way; the Ministry strongly suspects the Malfoys and will not allow any "accidents" to pass without investigation. This was the only way.

She is not the first one of her circle who has done this. But she is the first to have done it alone. Lucius knows nothing of this, and never will. Because Lucius loves his family, loves her and his parents with all the sincerity that he gives to nothing else, not even the Dark Lord. She knows that he would have told her to do this, but he would have suffered, been wracked with guilt. Perhaps he would have hated her for conceiving such a child. Perhaps his pain would have shaken Narcissa's own resolve. Perhaps he would not have allowed her to undergo such a dangerous test.

No, this child will only haunt her. This is her sacrifice, her gift to her husband.

x

The next time she visits Linkwood Crescent, the sparks are silver and gold. Particularly bright; this child will be talented. She goes home and tells Lucius she is expecting, and they both exalt in the continuation of their great lines, the birth of a true servant to the Dark Lord. Later that night they have a sweeter, more special celebration, anticipating the birth of a beloved son.

That night, Narcissa has that dream again. A dream of a pale, blonde toddler; it is a girl in this dream, though it varies from night to night. She is bright and articulate and sassy and beautiful; she attends a Muggle nursery and plays on her swing set and cares nothing for broom-racing.

Narcissa wakes, her face covered in sweat and tears. She cradles her still-flat stomach, already loving the child within. She prays that her son will be born strong and healthy.

The other child visits her dreams frequently, but stops when Draco is born. She need not yearn for a hallucination; she has a real, talented child to pour her love into. And she does so, giving him all the affection she has.

From time to time, she remembers the other child again. She wishes she had kept it, imagines a life in which she would have loved it despite its inferiority. She herself could have dealt with it, does not love blood purity nearly as much as she loves Draco. But she could not have does that to Lucius. Despite his moral ambivalence, he is a genuine follower of the Dark Lord. She could not ask him to choose, could not face the slightest possibility that he would not choose her. She made the right choice.

When Lucius suggests another child, she shakes her head, tells him she has produced an heir and does not want to become fat. He sees through her as he always does and drops the subject permanently. Every time her resolves falters on this point, she remembers the terror, the pain in those drab, banal grey sparks.


End file.
